


The Second, Silver

by bold_seer



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Wealth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-13 04:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15356064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/pseuds/bold_seer
Summary: It was a beautiful watch. A mechanical wonder in rose gold, with a blue dial that showed the heavens, the moon and the stars. But it didn’t mean anything. It was simply another beautiful object that Tony owned. Though he admired the construction and design, the watch wasn’t even particularly to his taste, too cold and remote, its hands too delicate. He wondered why he’d gotten it in the first place.





	1. A Man After Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nighttime encounter.

It was late. Or it was early. Those unaccountable hours of neither nor, in between, when it was too late to go to bed and too early to be up. He felt it in his body, was getting too old for this. But Tony was used to staying up, drudging through the tiredness. His mind wasn’t dulled by the lack of rest, even the alcohol. He was making new connections, and thinking, thinking, thinking. Sleep wasn’t an issue. Sleep could come later. 

Tony was in a car, five minutes from where he wanted to be. Which was in his penthouse, drinking whiskey, thinking about his life and his choices. Which weren’t really choices, but things that had happened.

Getting caught with a fit, young blond shouldn’t have been a problem. It wasn’t the first time he’d been found in a compromising situation. Everyone was legal. There was no coercion, no money or drugs being traded. Everything was consensual and enthusiastic, and at least relatively safe. Sanity was – a different question. 

Except when the fit, young blond was a guy, and you were exchanging mutual hand jobs. Then it was just embarrassing and inconvenient. And if it came out – worst pun of the century – the press would tear into him. Because it was a weakness. 

It wasn’t like Tony cared what people said about him. But there were fun ways to rebel. And then there were things that irrevocably changed people’s opinions about you. At which point it was too late to go, oh, experimenting. At forty-six. And Tony – a part of him forever twenty, well, thirty-something – did feel his age there. The ticking time bomb that wasn’t in his chest anymore. _Life._ Every year, closer to fifty. Half a century of – what exactly?

The guy had been into Tony, and Tony had been into him, and it had happened. Seemed like a good idea, as so many other things had. At the time. 

He wasn’t _not_ hot. He was pretty hot, if you liked blonds, which Tony generally did. They tended to wear skirts and heels. Not that you couldn’t wear skirts and heels and – 

That was a cop-out. More straight than not wasn’t straight enough. Mostly straight wasn’t worth coming out for. Because why do things (or people) halfway. Why not go all out? Girl on Friday, guy on Saturday, both on Sunday, at the same time. The stereotype would’ve fitted Tony to a T. He always took things to the extreme. And he took everything as a challenge. 

Even Rhodey didn’t know. Rhodey was his oldest friend, his best friend, but Rhodey was also military. He had served during DADT. 

It wasn’t like Tony was one thing or another. It wasn’t like Tony was anything other than himself. 

Still he wished, even now, he could’ve been more like Steve. Thought his father, if he’d been around, would’ve wished he was more like Steve. Straight and narrow Steve, who probably hadn’t been that straight, anyway. At least not straight _and_ narrow. But no one would know. Because that’s what happened when you disappeared in your prime years. You remained a boyish not-thirty: an image, not a person. Like James Dean. (Not straight?) 

The car made a turn. In a minute, the man who wasn’t Happy would park the limo. Tony would take the private elevator to the penthouse. Life was full of options, but Yoda knew it best. You did or you didn’t. And Tony always did. He wasn’t a big fan of declarations. (Except when he was: _effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division._ )

It had felt good. He’d had a drink, or two, or – the point. It wasn’t a regular thing, but it wasn’t the first time he’d done that either. He wasn’t the first guy. He wasn’t going to be the last. 

What the hell, thought Tony, when the car suddenly hit the brakes.

“Did you, did you hit someone?!” Someone. Not something. Not an animal. There had been a person. Tony didn’t wait for an answer before he swung the door open.  


There hadn’t been a proper impact. He would’ve felt it (he would’ve been transported back to the desert), but now he wasn’t sure. A man was lying near the entrance to the garage. He wasn’t moving. 

“Are you –” Injured? Alive? “Do you need an ambulance? Hospital? Doctor?” 

Tony was about to kneel down, when the guy rolled himself to one side, then pushed himself up into a seating position with his elbows. “’m a doctor,” he mumbled. 

“You need a doctor? Broken bones? Concussion?” Tony studied the man. He looked at little worse for the wear, face white and drawn. There was blood under his nose and lips, and some on one of his cheekbones, which made Tony want to run his thumb over it. He didn’t. He had _some_ impulse control.

“No hospital.” His pale eyes were alert and wary. 

“Okay,” Tony agreed, mostly to keep the conversation going. A DIY diagnosis on the side of the road probably wasn’t medically advisable, but neither was having your chest poked at in a cave. And that had turned out just fine. “Got it. Doctor Stark on call.”

Finally, the guy processed _Tony_. “Great,” he muttered. 

For a moment, Tony wondered if there was something more to it than a dislike of Tony Stark, genius billionaire. Though maybe there was some of that, too. The Merchant of Death, callous and careless, almost running over someone who wouldn’t have looked entirely out of place at an anti-war demonstration a good twelve, thirteen years ago. Or at least Tony got that vibe off him. 

“Do I – know you or something?” His clothes and shoes were faded and dusty. Could do with a haircut and a shave. It was difficult to picture him in any of the circles that Tony moved in. At a charity gala, dressed to the nines, when he seemed more in need of charity himself. 

“No.” It sounded genuine. He looked around, searching for something. There was a watch on the ground. He reached to pick it up, then pocketed it. Like the man, the watch had sustained some damage. Half on his own, half with Tony’s help, the guy got up. Able to stand on his own two legs, though he carried himself a little stiffly. He was kind of tall and kind of thin, but a lot of people were kind of tall next to Tony. He didn’t take it personally. 

“So,” Tony thought out loud. “How did you manage a hit to the face and nothing else?”

“I didn’t manage anything,” the guy said tightly. “Someone else did. And then I was almost run over by your car.” Prickly like a cactus, offering information one bit at a time. Someone had beaten him up, then. 

“Top floor.” Tony pointed up. “Could wash the blood off your face.” 

“The Stark suite?” He scoffed. “No thanks.” On a bad day, Tony’s ego was the size of Manhattan; when the sun shined more brightly, it was like California. But the guy wasn’t without pride either, determined not to be helped any more than was absolutely necessary. There was stoicism, and then there was plain old stubbornness.  


Tony didn’t bother to supress the urge to roll his eyes. “Now you’re really starting to hurt my feelings.” 

Maybe he didn’t want to be caught dead in the company of Tony Stark, just dead in front of his building, but he made no protest when Tony dragged him off by the shoulder, anyway. 

The cleaning lady who stepped out of the elevator gave them a funny look. Even if he hadn’t been instantly recognisable, Tony always belonged, both looking and acting the part. Any part. The offensively rich, the eccentric rich dressed how they wanted. But a man so worn-out and bleeding hardly pinged you as a millionaire. Especially, when he seemed reluctant to enter the elevator. 

She might have thought Tony had tried to knock the guy out (and steal, what, a broken watch?) and was heading for round two. Or that he’d picked someone up on the street, which wasn’t far off the truth. Not like – that. Unlike Tony’s other night-time adventures, there was no scandal here.

They took the elevator to the penthouse. Tony’s sometime home had all modern comforts, and like any place designed for everyone’s taste and no one’s, it had no personality. But it did provide a fantastic view, there was no way around that. Like a magnet, it pulled you towards it. Sure enough, the guy walked over to the glass wall of windows. It was dark, but the city was swimming in thousands of lights. He leaned onto the glass, into the night.

It looked like a fragile thing to keep a man from tumbling down into the darkness, but Tony knew his physics and his engineering, and he knew what the glass could bear, which was much more than the weight of one man. He stood there, a silent shadow. The penthouse was always going to be _the penthouse_ , best view. You felt it, like a rush, standing on top of the world. But there was also something isolating about being so high above the ground, separate from the world below. They were alone.

Likely, the guy went over everything he’d heard about Tony Stark. His reputation. If he was an unpredictable man. Big, bad billionaires could get away with anything, couldn’t they? The car hadn’t hit him hard, but that didn’t mean the night couldn’t end, the day begin with a body.

He turned around to face Tony, less watchful than weary. Not only beaten up, but beaten, as if the fight had gone out of him. That’s when Tony noticed the tremor. He wondered if inviting the guy up had been a mistake. 

Could be nerves. Some people were that way around the very famous. Or the very rich. Could be the after-effects of adrenaline. Almost becoming a victim of vehicular manslaughter would do that to you. Could be withdrawal. Snap judgements were snap judgements, but Tony wasn’t one to ignore evidence either, not when it was staring him in the face. 

He made a vague gesture towards the bathroom. “FYI, no pills and I keep my Rolex on me.” 

Truth was, he did have prescription pills. They weren’t in the bathroom. Pale and Shaking was hardly in a state to rob Tony blind, though. Plus Tony could afford it. Probably. 

The guy gave him an unimpressed look. “Patek Philippe. It’s worth more than a Rolex.” 

Tony checked. Huh. “Look at that. Still Swiss. Nice skiing.” The realisation came a second later. Maybe Tony’s mind was a bit fuzzy, after all. But how had he known that? He couldn’t afford one. That wasn’t a snap judgement. It was a deduction a twelve-year-old could’ve made. “You work for Tiffany’s before you started dressing like a backpacker?” And that was putting it nicely. “Rob a jewellery store? Now you hide in dark alleys from the police.”

What had he even been doing there in the first place? If it was something fun and illegal – sure. Tony could deal with that. If it was sad, it was different. But the man ignored Tony’s questions, as if they didn’t concern him. Tony shrugged. He opened the door to the bathroom and switched on the light.

The guy stepped in front of the mirror, inspecting the damage to his face. Then he started carefully cleaning the area under his eye. A bit ugly, but nothing too serious. Tony kept glancing at the reflection, not the man. Regular features. Sharp cheekbones. After a while, he turned towards Tony, still standing by the door. His nosebleed had started again. “Privacy mean nothing to you?” 

But he was still decent, hadn’t taken off any clothes. Perhaps someone seeing him when he was so obviously hurt made him ill at ease. Pain could be a private affair. Tony wondered if he had any injuries that weren’t visible. He felt his own chest and his old wound. That was a road to more self-blame than he wanted to engage in tonight.

“In case you’re not a pro.” He gave the guy a meaningful look. “Men’s room. Best place to pick up strange men.” 

Tony spoke in an outrageous enough tone, mocking and flirtatious at once, that he could’ve gotten away with saying anything. ( _Need a shower? Think I’ll join you._ ) Most people didn’t know what to make of it. He was charming and inappropriate, though not to the point of harassment. He played a caricature of himself, but his words were also true. Genuine, when you least expected it. Difficult to read.

“Indeed,” the man said drily, not offended by Tony’s words or even his presence. What had started off as annoyance and a haughty, cold demeanour had melted into something else. As he worked, the tension left his body, as if he found Tony’s company tolerable, even welcome.

Maybe he wasn’t a people person. Maybe he expected the worst of people. Maybe he expected the worst of Tony. But then his opinion had done a 180. Improbably quickly, in the turn of a second. He wasn’t the only one to change his mind about Tony, but it usually didn’t happen so fast. 

When the man was finished, he said, in his low voice, “I need to find my way out.”

Somehow, Tony hadn’t thought that far. “Uh, right. I’ll walk you downstairs.” 

The offer made him feel weirdly like a gentleman, the lead in some romance. Which was ridiculous. He was wealthier than any movie star, more famous than most of them. But he also felt like he should. You almost hit someone with your car, even when you weren’t driving, you walked them to the door of your own building. 

Only in the elevator did the absurdity of the situation dawn on him. 

He had hooked up with someone in the men’s room of a nightclub, quick and easy. Then he’d run across a man who couldn’t have been more different to the blond guy from earlier, handsy and eager, a bigger social butterfly than Tony. In faded brown and grey, the man at his side resembled a moth, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tony had taken him in, like a stray, without a second thought. And yet, there was nothing easy about any of it. Nothing easy about the man. Or Tony’s thoughts. 

When they stepped out of the elevator, the impulse hit him hard. Tony, who saw the end of the equation before most people had begun to work out the beginning, knew what to do. The whys and wherefores were an afterthought. 

“Hey, let me.” Tony removed his own watch and held it out. “It’s not a bribe, like don’t talk to anyone.”

_Tony Stark ran me over, then invited me to his room._

Worse stories had been written about him, worse because they were true. People had snap attention, but some people had a very long memory. 

Worse stories had been written about him, worse because they were fabrications. They denied his (few) good deeds and nice qualities that Pepper at least assured him he possessed. It felt a bit like being sentenced for that one crime you hadn’t committed. 

And all he got out of it was a watch. But the man had turned withdrawn and unobliging. He wasn’t looking at Tony’s hands, but his own. “It’s worth six figures, new. More than everything I own. Much more.”

Well, Tony could afford that. Anytime. “Only fair. Yours is broken, right?” 

He made no answer, so Tony continued, “I’m not trying to be a rich asshole who buys his way out of everything. If your dead grandad gave that watch to you, I can’t replace that. But hear me out. You weren’t even going to let me pay for your medical expenses. At least get a check-up. If there’s anything, contact Pepper Potts. She deals with my mistakes. Not that you’re a mistake. It was a mistake you got hit.” 

Was this smooth-talking Tony Stark? His speech sounded awkward, the offer misplaced, but he didn’t want to retract it. “Let me do something for you.” 

It was a beautiful watch. A mechanical wonder in rose gold, with a blue dial that showed the heavens, the moon and the stars. But it didn’t mean anything. It was simply another beautiful object that Tony owned. Though he admired the construction and design, the watch wasn’t even particularly to his taste, too cold and remote, its hands too delicate. He wondered why he’d gotten it in the first place. 

“It’s off. Uh, not off. It’s perfect. But look, not wearing it anymore.” The man still wouldn’t meet Tony’s eyes, resolute in his refusal. Maybe he didn’t want to seem a beggar, but that wasn’t what Tony had intended at all. He sighed. “If you don’t want it, I’m not going to make you. Think the cleaning lady would like a watch? Maybe a raise. A very big tip. But I can’t put it back on, that’s dumb.” 

No reaction. “Trade-off? Give me your first name. Or a really convincing alias.” 

The guy looked up and suddenly it was as though all the hard edges had disappeared. His face was open. “Stephen,” he said, a murmur. “With a ph.” 

Fingers brushing Tony’s, he took the watch, then attempted to attach the band. It required some effort, but Tony rejected the idea of reaching out immediately. Wrapping his fingers around another man’s dick – a man who wasn’t so much a nameless stranger as someone whose name Tony had forgotten an hour later? No problem. Touching Stephen’s wrist felt inappropriate, crossing some nebulous line. He wanted to be more careful than he thought he could be. Tony wasn’t a careful person. Not with people. 

It would’ve been the wrong move. Not offering help, but foisting it upon someone. Unless he had no other option, Stephen would shy away from Tony’s touch. He’d accepted a gift he had wanted to refuse. Requiring anything else was asking for too much. 

It was a moot point. The watch was on Stephen’s wrist. It disappeared under his sleeve, as if nothing at all had exchanged hands. 

The silence stretched beyond the moment, less tense than tinged with doubt and disbelief. There was something on Stephen’s mind, but Tony didn’t press. The tiredness was beginning to set. With one last enigmatic look, Stephen turned away, and Tony walked back to the elevator. Maybe he’d get some sleep.

The doors closed. When the thought struck him, he had already pushed the button. Know how you’re doing something (not doing something), and you _know_ it’s a bad idea? It was a feeling Tony was intimately familiar with. Only usually, the regret came much later in the game, when he woke up with a headache and caught Pepper eyeing the headlines. 

Tony drummed his fingers on the mirror. The elevator moved too slowly. How many minutes had he lost? On the ground floor, he made his way towards the exit, half jogging through the lobby. 

It was empty. There was no one near the entrance. Further away, he could see people and cars. But Stephen had disappeared, a spirit into the night, and Tony was left with New York City.

Population: eight million.


	2. The Name of the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buying and selling - metaphorically.

It was a question of time. Someone was bound to slip, something slip through. It was 2017. But a guy not being solely interested in women still raised eyebrows. Everyone would want to get the story - straight.

Tony did things and didn’t think them through. He moved smoothly between roles. Genius (from birth). Billionaire (after the death of his parents). Playboy (after becoming a billionaire). Philanthropist (after his change of heart). He was all of those things, in turn, at the same time, and none of them. They were pieces of a bigger mosaic. Another picture was forming now. Other pictures were out there, and people were debating the fuzzy pixels and body parts, what was or wasn’t Tony Stark. While the man of the hour was busy avoiding Pepper, and Rhodey, and that was about it. By hiding in a restaurant that wouldn’t serve him anything stronger than wine or beer.

He wanted to retreat under the covers and wake up sometime, oh, next year.

A shadow fell on the table. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” he said without looking up. Then he looked, anyway. Tony always looked.

It was Stephen, he realised, after a beat. Only he had – changed. The pained, defeated look was gone from his eyes. Instead of a beard, he had a goatee, not so different from Tony’s own. Maybe it was narcissism, another stereotype. Maybe it had less to do with identities and behaviour, more with Tony. Maybe it was something else. Low in spirits, full of curiosity, Tony found himself intrigued. By the man. The transformation. Their chance meeting.

“You seem different,” he said, toying with his glass. This was going somewhere, or the guy wouldn’t have approached him. He hoped it was somewhere good.

“Electric razor. It’s Doctor Strange, by the way.”

“I remember. Stephen. Ph.” Tony considered the man. “D?” he ventured, just because. 

“That too,” Strange answered. There was a hint of a smile on his face. 

So, the guy was a doctor. Even now, you couldn’t tell. He was wearing a maroon sweater, which balanced the line between simple and unusual. It was a good colour on him, but Tony had always been partial to red. Not to mention, puns that seemed to invent themselves. “Strange, doc. You must hear that a lot.” 

“Not anymore,” Strange admitted. “I don’t – practise.” 

“But you clean up well,” said Tony, looking him up and down. “Good disguise. Doesn’t look like you.”

Strange raised his eyebrows, that a good or a bad thing? A good thing, thought Tony. A very good thing. There were streaks of grey in his hair that hadn’t been there a year ago, though Tony assumed Strange was about his age. Tony loved gold: first place, brightest medal, worth more than its weight in gold. Success and standing in the sun. But silver, like the moon, had its own attraction. It gave him an oddly indeterminate quality.

“You have it the wrong way around,” said Strange, not particularly bluntly. “I didn’t look like myself.” 

Had he become himself again, the person he’d been before Tony met him? The practising doctor. Or had he turned into someone else? Strange appeared more poised than last year’s man, who’d been a bit of a mess. Tony could sympathise. At least when you’d reached your lowest point, there was no way but up. He gave Strange his most winning smile. “The real question is: do you make house calls?”

“Generally not.” There was something in his eyes. A sign Strange could be persuaded to make an exception for Tony. People tended to make exceptions for him.

Might as well cut to the chase. “First rodeo?” 

“No,” said Strange and didn’t elaborate. He regarded Tony, who kept his face neutral. Then continued, “I, uh, prefer men.” Whether it meant he swung both ways, but leaned towards one side, or it was a euphemism for being gay, Tony couldn’t tell. And whether that meant he’d had one partner or more, what he’d done, dating or relationships or sex, Tony didn’t know that either. Strange was unlikely to be forthcoming.

“This when you check out the bedroom? I’ll spoil the surprise. It’s bigger than the bath.”

“I have a place.”

“Cab or limo?” He tossed out the question with casual indifference. Everyone picked the limo. Except when they didn’t. Strange hesitated, body tense, fighting something inside himself without wanting to let on what it was. It couldn’t be about being run over by Tony’s car? He hadn’t been run over, barely been hit. 

“Let’s walk.” Strange cut off his thoughts. “It’s not far.”

Throwing a few bills on the table, Tony got up. He didn’t look back. They walked in silence, Strange taller than Tony, his legs longer. He thought of Strider, Longshanks, but that was too geeky to speak out loud, so he said nothing. And before he knew it, they were there, at the entrance to an old-fashioned building. It was the strangest home Tony had ever seen. Considering the lifestyles of the rich and the famous, that said something. 

“How do you score a place like this? Unless you’re Hearst, maybe.” Or Tony Stark. But his taste was cutting edge, even when the references weren’t. “Ever notice that’s an anagram for hearts castle? Minus palm trees, pool and marble. Kind of not at all, really. Definitely bigger on the inside.”

Strange smiled, almost demurely. “I’ve heard better lines.” 

Well, he had walked right into that one. Tony grinned.

“To answer your question,” Strange said, as they went up the stairs. “I met a librarian.” 

“Let me guess. She was ninety, secretly an heiress and bequeathed it in her will for services provided?” 

“He, and no. He’s alive.”

As if that explained _anything._ “So, what do you do?” Getting beaten up in backstreets to responding to Tony’s flirtation, measure for measure, was something of a step up.

“I live here,” Strange simply said. He opened the door to a bedroom, his bedroom, letting Tony walk past him. Very Gothic Suite, if an austere and scaled-down version.

“You went from being a doctor to a glorified janitor?” As credible a career path as weapons manufacturer to spokesperson for clean energy. “An unsatisfied housewife? Or –” His eyes fell on the bed. It was a throwaway joke, by rote, no different from any other joke Tony made, any day of the week. Yet the thought was ugly and forceful. Most of his relationships were so transient and fleeting there was never a talk about being exclusive. Tony had no problem sharing his toys. But they were things, not people. For some inexplicable reason, he felt that he didn’t want to share Strange. He wanted something of his own. Someone. 

They hadn’t slept together. Maybe Strange was bad in bed, you never knew. Maybe Tony would want to forget the mediocre sex and move on. Or he would say the wrong thing, something so offensive – to him, about him – that even Strange couldn’t let it go, and they’d never get that far. It had happened before.

In any case, Strange wasn’t his to command. Still he felt oddly possessive of a man he’d met twice. As though by catching him in a vulnerable moment, there was a page of his book that only Tony had read. As though Strange, too, had witnessed some secret side of him that night. Seen something in him tonight. Tony was missing the pages in between.

“Where’s your roomie?” His voice took an unexpected, accusing turn. A jealous would-be lover. But they weren’t on a date. They weren’t anything. It was a hookup.

“Wong is a friend,” Strange said in a distant tone. He sounded uninterested in keeping track of said friend. Like you couldn’t be friends and fuck. Or date. Or live together in domestic bliss. Wasn’t that supposed to be the best basis to build a relationship on? Friendship? Picking up men on the street or following them home wasn’t any kind of a connection.

“Some friend you’ve got,” Tony muttered. Rather than delving further into his own living situation, Strange tugged on the hem of Tony’s grey T-shirt. Impatiently, all business. Tony considered his hands more closely in the light. The scars seemed neither new nor old. They were old enough to have healed somewhat, new enough to stand out. For a second, Tony wondered whether Strange was self-conscious about them. 

It wasn’t a scar on his face. Tony hadn’t really noticed them at first, the scars or the hands, but they were obviously injured. And hands were always busy, in motion, gripping utensils and keys and door handles, texting someone or scrolling the news, opening buttons and zippers and caressing lovers. They were always on display, unless you wore gloves, which you could only do without attention during the coldest months. Despite his long limbs and affinity for luxury watches, if not jewellery, Strange wasn’t exactly Audrey Hepburn.

Nor was he the only one with an injury. But some scars were more easily covered. You didn’t have to take off your shirt to have a good time. 

“Accident,” Strange said softly. His fingers were tracing the area around Tony’s heart, an uneven touch. Was that enough to turn someone into a non-practicing doctor, Tony wondered. It depended on the speciality, he supposed. For a GP? Maybe not. Being a surgeon with unsteady hands was probably out of the question. Was that enough to ruin a man who must at least have had a comfortable salary? A fortune, an apartment, savings. That depended on the aftermath.

“Afghanistan,” he said in turn, though maybe Strange knew that. Kunar, 2008, almost getting himself blown up by his own tech. Not his proudest moment. He hadn’t been a soldier. He hadn’t been driven by duty, idealism or patriotism, not matter how misguided. He hadn’t been defending his own territory, someone’s territory. There was no explanation but detachment, no motivation other than profit. Another greedy asshole, making the world a worse, more uncertain place to live in. 

Strange stopped. Withdrew his hand. “Any preferences?” His voice was low and measured, deliberately accommodating, and all the more seductive for it. 

“Oh, I’m up for anything you’re up for.” Like so many things, it was a half-truth, but Tony was never going to be second best. Despite his reputation for anything goes, there were plenty of things he couldn’t and wouldn’t do. Sex was supposed to be fun. Make you feel good. Relieve stress. Be a pleasant distraction. Discover some weird, new thing that the body could do. Discover something about your partner. About yourself. In that sense, he was up for anything. But Tony didn’t want to be hurt. Not playful smacks, but genuinely hurt, taking a deep cut to the chest that made him bleed all over. And he didn’t want to hurt people. He’d hurt people enough for a lifetime.

Appearances could be deceptive. A man with a hard shell could be soft on the inside; someone who seemed soft could lash out. After all, Tony didn’t know much about Strange. It didn’t worry him. Strange didn’t strike him as a man whose tastes were too wild. And Tony wanted to his partners to enjoy themselves. It was a two-way street.

Strange considered his options carefully, silently negotiating with himself. He looked placid and composed. Unruffled, other than the few errant curls that fell onto his forehead. His hair wasn’t styled that way, not entirely, and still there was something controlled about the ease. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t bedhead. Tony wondered if he had schooled his face to project confidence, or if it meant he did this often. Any of it – casual sex or inviting over strange (and wasn’t that a gift that kept on giving?) familiar men. Or whether he was simply determined to get through the encounter with minimal awkwardness, dignity intact.

Finally, Strange settled for the compromise of giving Tony the reins, letting him set the pace, but not giving up control completely. He seemed like a man who didn’t easily give in, but Tony didn’t mind. He was good at following instructions. Well. Maybe not. He did what he wanted to. And now he wanted to. 

“All right, Stark,” said Strange, amused in his quiet way. Too coherent for a man half-dressed and leaning against the headboard. “Are you going to do something, or do I need to bargain?”

\--

Tony woke up to the sound of rain, its merciless beating. He had drifted off, but where was he? He fumbled for a light. Strange lay next to him, face buried in a pillow. Silently breathing, otherwise dead to the world. Checking the time, Tony figured he’d slept enough. He put the watch back on the nightstand, planning his next move.

There was a stack of books on the floor, an indication of what Strange tended to do, in bed or otherwise, when he wasn’t asleep. Tony considered picking up one of them, although they didn’t look like New York Times bestsellers. He wasn’t a stranger to books. Even a prodigy didn’t graduate from MIT without ever opening one. But although Tony read four, five languages, and spoke more, he didn’t recognise the script or the language. Hindi? Nepali? Something older? A little out of this world, a remnant of some ancient past. Tony looked to the future.

An early bird or not, Strange didn’t seem like he was going to move anywhere anytime soon. Lying next to someone who was asleep made Tony restless. Because then you started thinking. He could bear the public scrutiny, had some experience. He could face his friends. But the morning-after talk? Awkwardness and uncertainty, pouring over. Tony wasn’t a selfish lover in the moment. He gave and he took equally. He focused on the present. Then came the after, and that was usually when his attention started to wander. If he were at home, he’d go tinker in his workshop. But he wasn’t at home. He was in a strange bed, pun absolutely intended.

He could’ve woken up Sleeping Beauty. He could’ve stayed around for shower sex. At least to find out if there was a shower, or if Strange bathed in a Victorian tub. It wasn’t as ridiculous a thought as it should’ve been. Could’ve stayed for breakfast. He felt the beginnings of a headache. God, he wanted coffee. He really wanted coffee. To not only be awake, but feel like it too. The rain had quieted down.

Tony got up, gathered his clothes and dressed. Making bad decisions at seventeen and twenty-one was no guarantee you wouldn’t make them again at thirty-eight or forty-seven. He really was getting old. Whoever said with age came wisdom was lying. Or in deep denial. People could learn to not blow up other people, at least not provide them with the means to do so. Which probably should’ve been a given. But they also made mistakes. Over and over again. A variation on a theme.

It was a chilly morning, right before sunrise, when Tony walked out. In a daze, and kept on walking. Getting somewhere seemed more important than reaching a specific destination. Clearing his head. After a few blocks, he called Happy. It had stopped raining.

He was already in the car, when he noticed the watch he’d been wearing was missing from his wrist. It wasn’t a Rolex this time either. Maybe a Montblanc. Thinking back, he realised he’d left it by the bed – an unintentionally pointed message. Another goodbye gift. Only the watch he’d given Strange the first time around, before they’d slept together, was far more valuable. But wasn’t that always the case?

Real smooth, Stark. Really know how to make a guy feel good about himself. About as a good as he was at making himself feel good about himself. He should look Strange up later. How many people called that could there be? Doctor Strange? 

Tony scrolled through his missed calls, thought about spilling secrets and wondered whether the window for that had passed. Should he have told Rhodey at seventeen, when he didn’t know? At twenty-three, when he did know. Kind of, maybe. Or at any other point after that. 

What could he say? _I fucked a guy, because he wanted me to fuck him. Because he asked me to. And I wanted it, too. Then I walked out on him, because I got scared._ It made him feel like the fuckup that he was, but if it was too late to change anything, it was definitely too late to change that. He was ten minutes away, a mile away, but it could’ve been hours and months and years. The moment had passed. There was no going back, rewinding his steps, knocking on a door or sneaking back into bed.

For being early in the morning, it was too late for too many things. But, Tony thought, maybe not for everything. 

He’d talk to Rhodey.


	3. Take a Chance on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third time’s the charm.
> 
> (NB: Please read the chapter note at the beginning.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter warning: (past) suicidal thoughts**

Tony wanted a drink. He wanted a martini, he wanted it with vodka, and he wanted not to think about whether this whole thing was a waste of time. About to get his drink, he noticed the solitary figure in the corner. Stephen Strange had such an unobtrusive presence that Tony would’ve taken him for the Ghost of Christmas Past, if they hadn’t been well past Christmas and into spring, and two other guests hadn’t walked up to him at that very moment. Strange shook his head, just so, and they left him alone.

A drop of water to quench the thirst. Bitter cough medicine that gave no relief. Tony ditched the vodka and the vermouth in a heartbeat. When Bruce had invited him to – well, Tony hadn’t been listening, had he - he hadn’t pictured running into his one-night stand from months ago. His extracurricular interests tended to be less academic. Tony fought the impulse to run away. The impulse to reach out. His legs had turned into lead.

He settled for studying Strange in detail. Like Tony, most men were dressed in suits. Strange wore blue, almost ceremonial clothes, which resembled traditional clothing of some kind. National dress, or the robes of a religious order. It wasn’t a bad outfit. A bit puzzling. He hadn’t joined a cult? It would explain the secrecy and the silence, but Strange was hardly the type.

Tony had looked him up, of course. Light stalking. But there was nothing about a Doctor Stephen Strange, MD, PhD after late 2016. He hadn’t so much changed careers as – stopped. The building Tony had visited wasn’t an unplottable location. He could easily have traced his steps, turned up with an apology and a dozen red roses, but something had held him back. By luck, by accident, Tony hadn’t lost his way in the desert. Now he was floundering.

Maybe Strange was a very private individual, to a hide away in such a house. Maybe his roomie didn’t approve of Tony. Maybe Strange was content with silence. Tony had left without checking. In any case, Tony Stark had one of the most recognisable names and faces in the country. He was loved and hated in equal measure, especially after his heel-face or face-heel turn. And that was ten years ago. People never did forget. With his reputation, earned and inflated, Tony wasn’t anyone’s first pick for anything. Unless they wanted things to blow up spectacularly.

Without saying anything, Strange moved to Tony’s side. He looked good. He looked like a samurai. Or a priest. Tony was tempted to confess to some crime. All his sins. There was a thought. Avoiding looking Strange in the eye, Tony’s gaze fell to his wrist. He was wearing Tony’s watch. Not the Patek Philippe, though it would’ve suited him well. The Montblanc, in black and steel, with a hint of red. Tony wondered if it was a sign. What it meant. If he had known Tony would be there. He hoped so.

“How do you know Bruce, anyway?” Play it cool and casual, he figured, no big deal.

Strange didn’t seem particularly impressed. “ _Doctor_ Strange,” he reminded Tony, challenging him whether it was unreasonable he ever would’ve crossed paths with a biochemist. He was harder to read than Tony had remembered, but more real. Instead of a veneer of self-assurance, his emotions had levelled. Did the subdued greeting indicate he was over Tony?

“Right. You would’ve written a note,” said Tony, shamefaced.

“Tony, I wouldn’t have written you a note.” The use of his first name felt intentional, a sharp and cold spike. At a glance, Strange appeared perfectly in control. If you looked more closely at his hands, you noticed how they shook. Oh. Tony registered the ice, thin under his feet, when it disappeared. “Your watch, the other watch, is more beautiful than any I ever owned,” Strange mused in a wistful tone. “I thought about selling it.”

“Oh, yeah?” It wasn’t any old hand-me-down that could get you a car. Get you an apartment. Tony didn’t care that much. A watch was a possession. They were neat and shiny, but there was always going to be something neater and shinier around the next corner. But not always a _someone_.

“I pawned it.” Tony gave him a surprised look. “When I lost everything, after the accident, I really lost everything. My abilities as a neurosurgeon. My work at the hospital. Eventually, my apartment.” Strange paused to compose himself. “I sold my suits. My shoes. The grand piano I wouldn’t play and then couldn’t play at all. And I was still down to my last dollar.” He regarded Tony with fondness. “You gave me an extraordinarily generous gift.”

A spur-of-the-moment decision. Action that was half thought out, half gut feeling, the way Tony’s plans were. He had meant for Strange to leave with the watch, yes. But he hadn’t considered what the gesture might have come across as. What it might have meant. What it had said about him.

“It _was_ generous,” Strange countered Tony’s scepticism. “Not like those celebrities who give away sports cars because it’s fun. Not for the cameras. Because you wanted me to have it.” He sighed, old discontent seeping through. “I thought, if I sell it, even as a secondhand item, I could afford another surgery. By some hack.”

The scars. They weren’t solely marks left trying to fix a problem, but attempts to regain what had been lost. Determined, Strange went on. “But I knew I couldn’t do that anymore. My hands were ruined because of my own stupidity. I could only injure them further. And the sooner I accepted that, the sooner I could move on. So, I pawned it. And then I did everything to get it back. I couldn’t get my life back. After a while, I didn’t even want to. It was –” What it was, he didn’t say. “I could make a life for myself.” 

Stocks and shares, rising and falling like the sea. Your life, what you built it on, required something solid underneath. Though Tony was filthy rich, had been born rich, had never not been rich, he got that. Money didn’t protect you from the turns of the world, loss and hurt. Not completely. Money didn’t protect you from a scenario in which you didn’t have money, or your money was useless. The richest man on the planet could die alone, his body buried by dunes.

No one needed that much money. Not Tony’s billions, not even the money Strange had made. But when you’d worked for your fortune, when you were used to having money, when you suddenly didn’t have your high-paying job, but didn’t have anything else either, everything was just gone, that shook you to the core. It was a loss, its own trauma. Tony understood it, because everything he’d thought he believed in (everything he’d thought he didn’t believe in), everything he’d cared about, it all had changed in Afghanistan. That had been his own fault, as well.

Almost absent-mindedly, Strange touched his wrist. Watches and grands, they were things, but _they_ were people. And people got attached to things. “I should give you back your watch. It’s nice, but I assume you didn’t intend to leave it behind.” 

“Keep it,” Tony blurted out. 

“You know,” said Strange, a warning to his voice. “I don’t work for you. I don’t have to obey your every command.” Makes a man feel a bit cheap, he didn’t say. Or too rich, all of a sudden. It was a worse feeling than being used for your money.

“I know. But if I wanted you to?” There Tony was, wearing his heart on the sleeves of his slate grey suit. Strange raised an eyebrow at him, wouldn’t you like that. “Besides, I refute the implication. The point of employing experts is doing what they tell you. Therapist. Lawyer. Medic.”

Strange rolled his eyes. “I doubt you take half the advice you get.”

“I take the nice advice.” If he asked nicely? He could try begging, but Strange would hate a scene. Maybe hate Tony. Letting Strange be a missed chance wasn’t an option, but he didn’t have anything to offer. Anything he thought Strange would accept. But he could ask.

“Tell me something. You probably know everything about me; terrible books have been written on the subject. You’re a mystery, some sort of a ghost.” If he didn’t have physical evidence to the contrary, of dressing and undressing, sleeping and not sleeping, Tony might even have believed it. Stranger things had happened.

“Not a ghost. Nor in the spotlight. And I don’t know everything about you.” The statement was neutral, restrained, no indication of a desire to learn more. No sign of antipathy either. Strange weighed his question, and it struck Tony that that was the doctor, balancing hopes and fears, risk and reason. An engineer could crash things now and then, all part of the process, but the human body was frail and durable in so many different ways. Caution was a necessity. “I have an exceptional memory, though. I remember anything I’ve read.”

Huh. Ghosts were one thing, unproven, but Tony could keep an open mind. A perfect memory was a myth, a magic trick that relied on mnemonics and audience reactions. “Are you saying photographic memory exists?”

“Try me,” said Strange with infuriating confidence. Not dissimilar to Tony’s past demonstrations, but it also brought to life the surgeon that was the best at what he did and knew it. “It’s a vivid recollection. But it is a living thing. It can be distorted.” There was a smile in the works. Tony felt it, a frosty winter sun. “I like dogs, and tea, and music, and books.”

“Okay.” Tony nodded. “That’s good. I can work with that. Any deal breakers? Pet peeves, dislikes.” Billionaires who didn’t call back sounded like a good answer. Or guys who gave tacky gifts, especially on the first or second date. They’d ignored the third date rule, but intuition told him Stephen was a traditionalist. Tony had basically ghosted him, the real life equivalent.

Stephen remained silent for a moment, before he answered. “I don’t drink coffee.” At Tony’s surprised look, he elaborated, “Even before the accident. It’s, uh, we didn’t.” 

Of all the things Tony had expected Stephen to reject, even disown, that wasn’t in the ballpark. It was absurdly far from it. “Doctors don’t drink coffee? In what universe. Long shifts, late nights, American as apple pie.” Tony lived on caffeine, like breathing air.

Stephen’s posture became defensive. “Generally, patients prefer their surgeons don’t actually suffer from heart palpitations and unsteady hands.” Still a sore point. A closed wound that could easily open. “And I’m not going anywhere in your car,” he finished with some bite, which triggered a near Pavlovian response. The immature part of Tony, the part that invariably got him into trouble, saw the opportunity to snark back. Even an easy _I’d take you for a ride, anytime._ But there was a difference between being mean and being cruel. Stephen’s expression told him the matter was closed. It wasn’t like they needed a car to go from there.

Tony shrugged. “Whatever you’ve read, reality is worse. Alcoholic. Borderline alcoholic. Narcissist.” Those were some of the nicer labels, factual or fictitious. No use in scaring the guy, not when Tony was close to getting back into his good graces.

Stephen only smiled. A weary smile, but a smile. “I have flaws enough for six men. Doctor Strange, the biggest ego at Metro-General. Biggest dick, and not in the fun way.” The words were light, but they didn’t cover up the brokenness. Shards of a past to glue back together and confront. “After the accident, after the endless, painful, pointless surgeries, I came close to walking into traffic.”

A bird was picking at Tony’s heart, tearing out little pieces. Anyone could have funny thoughts about life and death, staring into a bottle late at night. Tony hadn’t ever really thought about it. Had he? Stephen hadn’t. He’d been injured from a fight. He hadn’t thrown himself under the car. “You didn’t.”

“No,” Stephen said automatically. “I wouldn’t put others in harm’s way.” Which, when you examined it, was half an answer. He continued, detached and clinical, “Pills are a doctor’s way out.” The absolute horror must have shown on Tony’s face. It made Stephen recant. “Tony, I didn’t mean – it was a long time ago.”

But what was a long time? Was it a lifetime of megalomania and inadequacy? A decade that didn’t feel all that long ago. A conversation over three years. A silence that stretched, encompassing them both. A second, and it was over.

“I was in a different place. I’d lost everything and hurt the one person who cared. I had nothing to live for.” Stephen sounded remarkably collected for someone who had weighed the pros and cons of living and dying. The former option had prevailed, but by chance or choice was anyone’s guess.

Even when Tony had drifted through life without purpose, wasting decades and outrageous sums of money, there had been constants, anchors. Whether or not he’d deserved them. Whether they had deserved putting up with him, the selfish and unreliable playboy that he was. Had been. Rhodey and Pepper had recognised his better nature, when Tony himself hadn’t. And no one else had either.

There was a sadness to Stephen, but no self-pity. “I was alone. I didn’t care what happened. I knew no one would miss me – or maybe Christine would, but she’d be better off without me, in the end – if I disappeared off the face of the earth. Not just figuratively. I suppose you know at least as much as Google. Nothing much from the past few years.”

Bedford Falls without George Bailey. Had Tony ever imagined an existence without himself? A fleeting thought of a utopia. No Stark Industries, and justice for all. But it was never true that life was better without you. It was _never_ true. And it hurt to hear. So very much.

“And then?” His tone was level, but Tony kept his gaze fixed on Stephen. Preventing him from disappearing. Willing him to keep existing, a part of life. Of Tony’s life.

“My circumstances changed. I met Wong. Before that, I met a billionaire who gave me his watch. I know what it sounds like. But I did some soul-searching. I changed. Or I didn’t. My outlook changed.” Stephen spoke gently, as though Tony was in need of reassurance. “Tony, everyone has a front.” As though he was interested in looking behind Tony’s, or already had. “Some tales are true. You’re compassionate. You have an urge to help others.”

And suddenly, there was no trace of that too-tired, too-serious man Tony had first met two years back, but an unarmed, dorky grin. “You could come over to see your watch? It has a shrine, like an ancient relic. Wong doesn’t particularly approve. Don’t know if it’s you or the watch. Wouldn’t wager on it.”

“I’ve seen your place. Impressive, but I’ll do you one better.” Tony could deal with surly housemates later. He would. “You’ve seen mine. Let me take you somewhere. Anywhere.” He wanted to tell Stephen, _I’ll buy you another thousand watches_. But that would’ve been the wrong thing to say. Too much, and too soon. 

Stephen hesitated. Perhaps he envisioned wild parties, or lavish galas, or waves of paparazzi. Those were all parts of Tony’s life. They had been. Perhaps he was worried there would always be an inequality between them. Tony was one of the richest men in the world, while Stephen – whatever his earnings had looked like as a neurosurgeon – was left with one friend and a place to stay. And two expensive watches.

But Tony remembered Yinsen’s _a man who has everything and nothing_. It was a cliché. It wasn’t anything Tony hadn’t thought himself. It wasn’t anything that hadn’t been written about him. Ridiculous stories: can’t buy him love. They were also the words of a person who had truly given everything for Tony.

A man who had everything could be said to have nothing, nothing of substance, though he had his friends and his fortune. But even a poor man could have friends. And a fortune, no matter its worth, was only worth so much. A man who seemed to own nothing, have left traces of himself nowhere, could have something. Could offer Tony something. Could accept Tony’s – something. Maybe.

It wasn’t a zero-sum game, with winners and losers. It wasn’t about bodies and hearts, who was giving and taking, but a power negotiated and renegotiated. Tony wasn’t any less likely to get his heart broken than Stephen. It made him want to spin the roulette wheel and risk everything. 

All of that passed over Stephen’s face in seconds. Through Tony’s mind, minutes in the making or going on two years. Going on forty-eight. 

Stephen leaned in towards Tony, as if he was going to kiss him. Right there, with people around them, but Tony had already decided he didn’t care. He would’ve treasured the feeling of someone staking a claim on him. He had staked his claim first. If anyone else cared that a strange man (not strange, not even Strange – but Stephen) was kissing him? They were just people. Not his people. People. There were seven billion of them.

Lips brushing by Tony’s ears, Stephen said, “All right, take me on a date.” His voice was warm and affectionate, a little playful. And that was so, so sexy. Tony wanted to do anything and everything with him. To him. For him. Ask anything of him.

Then Stephen was looking into his eyes, somewhere so deep that even Tony didn’t know what he’d find there. Not rummaging for dark secrets or parts of him that were hidden away, but venturing into completely unknown territory. As if Stephen was searching for _him_ , not Tony Stark. Sooner or later, he would have to look away. No one moment was endless. They couldn’t lock eyes forever. Stephen would leave. To his weird home, to a potentially weirder friend. His secret life that Tony had caught glimpses of.

But he’d return, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony’s first watch is a Patek Philippe Sky Moon Celestial ([here](https://d23x6d9cx8qezf.cloudfront.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/Patek-Philippe-6102P-Sky-Moon-Celestial-4.jpg), in platinum). The second is a Montblanc TimeWalker ([here](http://www.montblanc.com/content/dam/mtb/products/watches/116/097/116097/241567-ecom-retina-01.png.adapt.1000.1000.png)).
> 
> The title is from _The Merchant of Venice_ \- Portia’s three caskets in gold, silver and lead. Chapter titles are all ABBA songs.
> 
> Thanks to Mercurie. Thanks for reading!


End file.
